


His name had been—

by Starlithorizon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:45:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man who no longer had to be qualified in relation to his partner must come to terms with a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His name had been—

**Author's Note:**

> So "A Story About Them" gave me feelings, and then this happened.  
> It was kind of interesting for me to write, actually, mainly because of the ending. I'm trying new stuff.  
> Sorry if the summary and tags aren't that useful; it's way too hot for me to think. I'm mostly a puddle that's wishing for air conditioning.  
> Anyway, have this teeny lil thing while I stall and don't study for chemistry.

His name had been forgotten by all but a few. Granted, that was the case with most of them, but this is a story about him specifically, and the largely-forgotten name. He, the other him who now no longer needed such qualifiers as "is not short," knew the name and held it in the bowl of his mind. He imagined a soft mother with hands that smelled like jasmine lotion and a voice curling soft around that name. He thought of a tougher father with a nervous line carved between his brows and the name snapping hard across that voice. He thought, of course, of his own mother and father because he knew nothing of the people who had raised his partner.

His friend.

A bottom line and an unmarked grave.

That sat poorly in his belly. Sometimes, he woke in the middle of the night with imagined blood on his hands and very real tears in the corners of his eyes, On these nights, he stumbled into the bathroom and flooded his weary eyes with fluorescent light as he scrubbed at the creases where the blood had collected on that terrible day.

The man who no longer had to be described as "is not short" knew many things.

His partner had been married for three years and had a two-year-old daughter. Her name was remembered and rang out like a bell. The bell tolled _Maisie, Maisie, Maisie_ behind the tired eyes of the man left behind.

He had a half-finished crossword book on his night stand, a birthday gift from a few months back. His wallet was stuffed with receipts to their business lunches, where he had given his partner fries in a quiet gesture of friendship. There was a life long since spilled out and swallowed up by the sand wastes, but there was also a life tinted red with that...whatever that feeling was. It wasn't regret, because it had been necessary, and he would have done it again if he'd had to.

Was it mourning?

He hadn't felt that one before.

On this night in particular, he stood at the bathroom sink with the rush of hot water blurring in his ears and his too-sharp reflection burning in his eyes. On this particular night, blood dripped into the basin, though it was not from that gruesome deed. Instead, it came from scrubbing skin away with a nail brush and desperation.

There was a sound like a crack, and it came from his throat, and he was on his knees.

He _screamed_.

That man, the man who had not been short, the man who had been tall, the man who he'd buried and who had a daughter and enjoyed puzzle games; that man had been his friend. And his name had been


End file.
